THE BLACK LIPS OF SANGIOVESE

The black lips of Sangiovese,
Pressed to the ground.
I swept the floor, the bells around the donkey’s neck, the scoop of the hill,
There were things buried there:

In the shadow of a passing cloud a fountain grew, round voice in a square plot. In the dry field, the raw new sound of the source drowned out astonished looks as it bubbled up straight from the middle of a clump of dirt stepped on and over all these years, the thud of shoes and hooves slowly waking it up. All these years underfoot, humming as it came to the surface and then moaning at everyone. It ran like a brown snake and several feet stepped back, not wanting to be touched.

Belly of the water,
Some heard it hissing,
Swimming in the black shadow under the hill of my lip in the sun, black under red underfoot,
Busted grapes pressed to the ground,
Kissing the triangles and trapezoids of ancient pottery, the sharp edges of former vessels, functionless now as the pink in the sky.
Miraculously, not needing anybody,
The water contained itself,
Encased in soft glass like an eye, causing distrust, it blinked and looked up at everyone curiously from atop the dirt, seeing.
Several spit out toxic tastes they wished to give directly to the devil,
But as he wasn’t home, the stains remained,
Like raindrops freckling the plowed field,
Emerging and soaking in as a kiss is a cut that never heals, refusing to be buried there:

Not able to reach into and beneath the ground the way the bells on the donkey do, awakening the snakes, I swept the floor until there was a hole, round as a thick plate presenting spotted leaves chewed and limping in the teeth of the heat, and a few other fruits, black, dusty, and over-warm as a mouth in love. Removing the skin of the old dust to make way for new, the shadow of the hole filled with white and this white shadow blossomed and billowed under the trees, wide as a moon touching the hilltop. The water, flicking its tongue, crawled toward it, past hooves and shoes and the jagged diamond-shaped jaws of a dead jug poking up from the ground.

Belly of the creature,
Stretched out across the field, dividing it in two, like the words of the devil himself,
The black liquid tongued its way,
Cupping and containing the thud of the donkey’s hooves as they stamped impatiently on the slope of dusty hands held up to chins.
Passing cloud, the black eye of the bells rattled,
The rise and fall of my lips cracked open, where the ground bubbled, stepped on and over all these years,
All these years humming just under the sun until something resembling an ache was uttered,
A cursive script,
Some said it was the sound of a kiss,
Some said it was the fountain as its roots were ripped up from the field, its rush of blood unburied there:

Upon hearing this, several people dropped to their knees, nervously licking the dry dirt, tongues out and caked. They lapped, looking over their shoulders as the grapes peeled, over-hot, their glassy smiles revealed, blinking like eyes and the hole grew bigger. Rounder and swollen, bitten by the heat’s wettening teeth, its black venom bloomed into red mounds resembling lovers’ fevered lips pressed together like palms sweating in prayer, a shadow held between them, touching without being touched in the middle of a square plot.

Dearest devil,
The water flowed both ways,
With mouths opened to the open mouth of the earth, they moaned,
Moaning for the moan that was buried there:

Plowing the ground with their tongues, scooping as if with a thick cracked plate, they planted their thirst, biting at the hill like a breast. Tongues became fangs embedded in hot flesh and the source gushed down into the cool shadow under the slope of my cheek. Uncurling, neck extended, the creature slithered eagerly toward the neighboring field of Sangiovese, slipping through fingers, caressing knees and palms and hooves that were pushed like a kiss into the field’s face, rubbing itself between the broken edges of pottery, sharp as its own wet scales glittering in the sun.

Bit and split by the chipped teeth of vessels,
The cut cursive bled.
Soft belly of the water,
Spilling out over my tongue, black as a grape’s eye burst open.
Hissing, it spoke its insides all over the ground like a bottle uncorked,
Expanding from brown to red to pink to brown to red to pink again,
The wideness of it all made the donkey bray, some heard it pray, bells jingling like a church, kicking up the dirt as it crawled now with hundreds of snakes suddenly unburied there:

Soaked shoes were removed as the ground hummed. Several chewed on their own mouths in anticipation, lips splitting like over-ripe fruit. Translucent and naked as the devil himself, the water flooded the field of grapes, dusty as moons under spotted leaves limping like ancient triangles in the heat. The tongue of the source flicked and licked until there was a hole and the hole grew bigger. Warm wound, walked on and over all these years, alive just under the surface, the black juice oozed sweet as a round voice in a square plot. Some said it was just the fountain overflowing, its raw shadow rising up like a viper in the glare of the sun, others said it was the hot blood throbbing in their veins as it swam away, not needing anybody anymore.

Nowhere to step back,
The liquid ran down the slope of dry, cracked chins,
Bleeding onto the wet earth, bare feet, the shedded clothes of grapes,
Red over red,
As a kiss is a cut unhealed.
Removing the skin of the old dust to make way for the new,
I swept the back of the snake, the bells around the donkey’s neck, the scoop of the wave,
Black as the lips of Sangiovese,
Pressed to the ground,
Devotionally moaning the way a blush behaves,
Softening the things that were buried there.